the product of thirst and performance of bleeding
by Coins Compressed
Summary: When the Academy's annual school play results in murder most foul, unlikely heroes Arthur and Ludwig must fight through the horrors of misinformation and possibly sentient canteen food to save the day (mostly Gilbert). Pairings galore and crack ahoy, but hopefully a riveting detective read where it counts - or at least, so Arthur would like to assume. Human!AU, ongoing.


**an:** I am involved in what is quite possibly the most epic long-term group Gakuen RP to ever grace the planet, and this fic is a homage to the most excellent roleplayers I've ever had the honour of being able to befriend and mess canon up with. I say this as a blatant act of sycophancy if they decide they don't quite like this fic after all, but I hope they do!

**warnings: **deathfic; it's a whodunit, but i mean no nationally-aimed offence! other possibly upsetting themes, read at own risk. Established pairings at the beginning are Kikuwan, VietNorth and ScotCan, others pop up along the way.

**additional: **human!au, teen ages 16-17. contains OCs, but all in small roles/based on RP characters. In this chapter, Mei Xiao = Taiwan. Tae-se Kim = _North_ Korea. Alwyn Kirkland = nyoWales.

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**the product of thirst and performance of bleeding**

**I: the stage lost a fine actor**

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"I'm not generally one for backstage work," remarks Arthur Kirkland, of English voice and unspeakable hair, "but I daresay I'm even less thrilled with the approach management have taken in organising _this _year's production."

And Ludwig Beilschmidt, of German inflection and mild bewilderment, has to concede he agrees.

The pair don't know each other – not really. Ludwig's standing in the left wings of the stage with a notebook in hand and appropriate pen in the other, the representative for the Academy's newspaper club. Arthur's standing in the right wings of the stage with his arms folded across his chest and costumes piled up around his feet in colour-coded mounds, soon to be worn by amateur actors cherry-picked from the Academy's own student body.

Upon the stage itself are three others, one of whom Ludwig knows well; his brother, Gilbert, stands adjacent to Lovino Vargas, and Vargas's brother Feliciano between them. They're each brandishing a script, rehearsing some incredibly important scene that Ludwig barely understands and hasn't really been bothering to follow regardless.

Arthur is, as far as Ludwig knows, the head of the Student Council, and one of the 'brightest' students in attendance – not that his status means he's an easy person to approach. 'Cantankerous curmudgeon', the witty alliteration in Ludwig's notebook declares, as he attempts to make the article he's currently preparing seem as tabloid-friendly as possible. The Academy newsletter's readership is not a high-brow conglomerate, to say the least.

"I'm not sure why you're helping out at the moment," Ludwig says, as reaction to the earlier statement. Might as well build on the topic while he has the chance, and he goes on accordingly, "I'd expect someone of your position to attend the first showing of the production. Not help it come to fruition itself."

"Mei's a friend," Arthur says curtly. He seems to be defensive, but then, he's been defensive since the 'interview' began, Ludwig keeping his distance and Arthur occasionally offering him glares from across the theatre floor. "I'm only helping a friend. Yes, yes, it may surprise you I do indeed have _friends_, but there's also the small issue of the fact she'd happily dress everyone up in faux-feline ears and the like if I wasn't present to ensure she doesn't have _full _control over the production's wardrobe."

Ludwig just nods, writing, _Mei Xiao – costume designer. _This information may come in useful, and he'd rather find details about how the school play came to be from them, rather than the current prop master that shot him flirtatious glances upon entering the theatre earlier – _Francis Bonnefoy._

"What's got you so interested in the school play, anyway?" Arthur asks, nudging the (purple) pile of clothes in front of him aside with his foot. "It's not like we haven't hosted them before. I was involved in the last one and nobody came along to report then."

Ludwig narrowly prevents his eye from twitching. "Feliciano asked me."

Not strictly true, but he was just about as vocal as Gilbert was over their earlier morning toast – after, of course, Gilbert had woken his familial roommate by jumping violently all over his bed. _It'll be fun,_ said Gilbert. _I wanna give people a behind-the-scenes kinda special, _said Gilbert. _I'll stop stuffing your maths textbooks down the toilet if you do, _said Gilbert.

The Italian prior discussed hears his name and beams, head jolting up from its focus on his script to direct such a smile to Arthur. His response is a crinkled nose, the Englishman's face contorting with a severe case of mild distaste.

"And lo, suddenly all becomes clear. Honestly, Vargas, it's bad enough I have to put up with your brother constantly losing his wrist cuffs, but now you expect me to guide the lesser-spotted Beilschmidt around the place? I'd rather be reading up on the life and times of von Bismarck's favourite cat."

Script tucked beneath his arm, Feliciano claps his hands together, though the gloves he's wearing – part of his costume as some sort of jester – prevent any sort of sound from escaping. "Luddy looks for stories and so do I and so does Kiku! Wouldn't it be fun to have this one printed and everyone thanked?"

It seems Arthur hears what he wants to hear, because his response is to snort, "_Luddy._ Oh, yes, I'll have lots of fun with _Luddy – _and please excuse me, if you don't mind."

With a quick bounce on his heels, he begins making his way to the opposite wing, giving Gilbert a cordial nod as he passes by; for all he mightn't know the younger German, he's on fairly good terms with the elder. Just not with the aforementioned Frenchman in charge of props that Gilbert associates with, and not with _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, _the giddy Spaniard aptly behind the play's script – perhaps that's the reason why the story's so scattered.

Opposite to his brother in all manners of personality, Lovino directs a glare towards Arthur as he passes, outraged at the momentary interruption to his venture in going over lines. Though Ludwig would hardly call Lovino a natural born actor, nor someone who'd previously seemed interested in theatre, it's understandable that he'd want to have his little moment. Lovino is playing the _tragic_ hero, after all, to be cut down in his prime by the diabolical villain as haunting music swells from the accompanying orchestra.

It's fitting that Gilbert, irritation extraordinaire to those outside his social circle, is playing the villain.

"I'm not really sure what else I could offer you," Arthur says, once he's safely positioned at Ludwig's side. It draws Ludwig from his thoughts enough to offer Arthur a quirked brow in response, so Arthur goes on, "You've spoken to most of the _actual _crew members and the only other information I'd be able to offer you concerns details relating to my own grievances against these half-rates."

He gestures to the stage, and it's an apt mess – Gilbert has started thrashing his script around while Lovino mutters various Italianate curses, Feliciano oblivious to the animosity between his own brother and the brother of his reporter-friend.

For a moment, Ludwig is silent, and then, "One of those 'half-rates' happens to be related to me."

"I have the utmost sympathy for you."

"I appreciate that."

"For what it's worth, you're hardly similar." Arthur twists his mouth. "Gilbert seemed rather... excitable, at the prospect of you watching him, but I'm receiving no signals from you to indicate you're even remotely interested."

"That's not true," Ludwig blatantly lies. "I'm always supportive of my sibling involving himself in extra-curriculum activities, and will extend that support through related gestures."

Arthur spares Ludwig a glance, offering his first smile of the day, as far as he knows. "What's that you're spouting? The Official Inspirational Message, trademark, recently published by European Union experts?"

"Something like that." Ludwig grimaces. "All right. I concede I'm... not exactly intending to see the finished piece performed tomorrow."

"Oh, such a loss! Never mind. I don't intend to either. I fear I simply won't be able to resist catching an inconvenient cold tomorrow, which will prevent me from fully representing the School Council, how sad – I'll castrate you if you quote that in your article."

"I would rather avoid the mess." Ludwig shakes his notebook a bit. "I think I have enough to go on. It's more of a filler for the next academic session edition. Not much worth reporting has taken place these past few months. My wrist ended up hurting just from writing the quotes Mei made me take down beforehand. Mostly about sewing patterns."

"Ha! I would be interested in reading those. We're in something of a competition, Mei and I, over who can formulate the most comfortable outlines - I'm partial to embroidering little bees into extensive handkerchiefs, stinging bastards though they might be when not comprised of high-quality thread."

"I'm sorry," Ludwig says, flatly, "but I struggle to believe you're one for sewing."

Arthur _cackles. _"Oh, if you think I'm antisocial, you should meet my sister. Alwyn doesn't like other people almost as much as sheep don't like mint sauce, and trust me, anything sheep dislike is an enemy to her."

Ludwig has no idea what to say to that.

He doesn't have to fret, it seems, because then there's a tap on his shoulder. He glances down to see who's behind such an action and somewhat regrets doing so, because he's met by blue eyes left half-lidded and blond hair tousled into curls. Francis has an armful of assorted items Ludwig assumes to be props, but the most stand-out one – the one that catches his eyes and makes them widen – is a _knife._

"Been reading Fifty Shades of Beige again, frog?" comes Arthur's voice, tone bored and foot tapping. "I wouldn't recommend brandishing those around school. People think you're enough of a sexual deviant as it is."

"Oh, Mr. Kirkland, you wound me so," Francis says with an obligatory gasp for emphasis, tilting back his head to dislodge that curled hair. "_Non, non_; these are not as immoral as you think, though I fear their conspicuous nature makes it seem so. This knife is _magical_."

Ludwig says nothing, just writes it down like it makes logical sense. Arthur's silent himself for a moment, but he has a tone of curiosity the next time he does speak.

"It looks like the ones from the canteen. Might I ask for elaboration or is that beyond your intellectual capability?"

Francis curves a smile. "The villain kills the hero, does he not? But I can hardly give Gilbert a real knife for dramatic use because I don't feel he can be trusted with such a thing. Here, stab Ludwig."

"_Pardon_?"

Ludwig himself again says nothing, but he does manage to shoot Francis an expression that he feels fully conveys his discomfort.

"Stab Ludwig! The knife does not go through. The blade goes back to its handle at the slightest of impacts, but it will look real enough to whoever's in the audience."

An on-stage shout cuts off whatever rude reply Arthur's open mouth wishes to utter, Gilbert's voice instead making itself known. "What're you little shits conspiring about?"

"Rude, rude!" Francis says, then chuckles slightly from the corner of his mouth. "I'm simply conversing with your _charming _brother so he has something _glamorous _to write about – namely, me, of course."

Gilbert is unimpressed. "We need that stuff over _here_, Francis. Gotta get choreographed or whatever so Antonio can come on and do his last little bit."

Wherever he may be lurking currently, Antonio's playing a jester just as Feliciano is, apparently present to deliver comic relief following the 'horrific' on-stage murder. He is also, perhaps surprisingly, turning out to be something of a diva.

Francis pouts. "Yes, yes, don't worry. I found it difficult to find the shocking murder weapon but it turns out I'd left it behind a pair of equally killer heels, silly me!"

"That prop room really needs a good clear-out," Arthur says. He's scowling, but that's the look he's had for most of the morning. "I could hardly _breathe _for rubbish there earlier. You should write an expose on how shoddy Francis is at running the place, Ludwig, there's an idea."

"I don't think that's," Ludwig begins, and that's as far as he gets before yet another interruption arises, this time French.

"_Quel scandale! _You wouldn't have needed to wander into my domain if you hadn't been _so _insistent on a quickie, hm?" Francis drifts past as he speaks, greeted by the ever-expectant Gilbert to begin sorting through the props for what their scene requires. "How very demanding these Englishmen can be."

"I was-! I was collecting _costumes_," Arthur hisses. "I'd rather know Mr. Ratzinger in the Biblical sense than end up in any sort of room alone with _you_."

Francis merely shoots Arthur an eyelash-fluttering smile, enough to ignite Arthur's cheeks a violent, furious red. Ludwig briefly entertains the notion of writing a fully-fabricated kiss-and-tell on the pair. That's until he realises he'd have to write about coitus.

For a moment, he watches Gilbert wave around that fake knife, finding himself unsurprised that his brother looks right at home with an aggressive weapon. Even if it _is_ fake.

"Retractable, I'd say," Arthur says suddenly, like he can worryingly read Ludwig's thoughts, but then he's reaching over to prod at where Ludwig's written 'magical'. "Clever thinking, I suppose, though I struggle to believe Bonnefoy would manage such a thing – and I assure you I wouldn't have stabbed you, old chap, even if it wasn't Bonnefoy asking me to do so."

If this is Arthur's idea of being friendly… Never mind, Ludwig will gladly take the courtesy.

"This may seem too much for me to ask," Ludwig says, "and I understand if you don't wish to, but I – I admit I've not been following proceedings-"

"I don't blame you."

"-would you be able to summarise this, er, scene? I assume you've read the script."

"Sadly, I was the poor bugger behind _editing _it," Arthur replies, amused. "There's not that much to it. Lovino is a Knight, taking on his malevolent King within a feudal era of Medieval sensibilities, and Gilbert is the wicked monarch in question. He does indeed manage to strike the Knight down, set on continuing in his corrupt rule over peasants with neither soap nor literacy... until he succumbs to some sort of turtle army Lovino's character had previously briefed on the matter and the day is apparently saved. That's all in the _next_ scene."

"…Erm."

"Precisely."

At least it's original, but what else had Ludwig been expecting? Antonio is renowned for seeing things in a bit of a tospy-turvy way. No matter; if he uses a few of the colourful adjectives like those Arthur'd expressed, the article should turn out all right.

Briefly, he glances over towards the seating arena - where most of the crew's assembled. There's Mei, rarely ever seen to be walking, near-floating between the aisles of chairs and cup-holders with the fanciful airs of a butterfly. Her companion definitely isn't so graceful, however, plodding along with steps measured and head bowed; _Kiku Honda, _the Japanese student in charge of lighting, apparently. They're in some sort of relationship but, as with all things Mei-related, it's never too clear.

"You know," Arthur says, contemplative. "You know, those bastards are up there taking an impromptu picnic and I've been on my feet around this frankly unheated auditorium since six this morning."

"I imagine, for you, that's early."

"That's basically the middle of the night. But I haven't even had ample opportunity to stop for a quick spot of tea."

"Right…"

Arthur stares at him, expressionless. It's like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't give a chance for response before he says, "All right. To translate my implication for the socially awkward, would you like a chance to escape from having to sit through Lovino's melodramatic portrayal of Generic Protagonist One getting a knife to the belly? Kiku makes an _excellent _brew and you'll be able to swap reporting details like Top Trumps, or whatever it is you do."

"That's an offer I think I'll take," Ludwig says, despite how little he might know about his sudden companion. Nobody else was willing to show him around – then again, nobody else was doing quite as _little_ work as Arthur. "Though I would count myself on good terms with Feliciano, I am… not so highly valued by Lovino himself."

"Poor lamb," Arthur clucks. "You needn't fear the big bad wolf, though he can be very mean and very scary. I find tea is excellent at calming a case of the old frazzled nerves."

Ludwig can never tell if Arthur's being serious or not. That's one thing he's gathered. He can, however, determine blatant sarcasm, and he subsequently narrows his eyes in Arthur's general direction.

"Am I invited?" poses _yet another _unexpected interruption, and it's sort of clear why Arthur hasn't been given a moment's peace around here, even with the very small level of output he's been supplying. Ludwig turns, again, to see who's approaching through the back door of the wing and, again, it's a member of the crew. Hardly surprising during the day-before rehearsal; it's natural they'd want to look good on opening night.

From oversized gloves to ridiculous hat, Antonio's harlequinesque costume is the same as Feliciano's, but in yellow. Ludwig has never been gladder for uniforms than at that moment, free hand lifting of its own accord to adjust his tie while the Spaniard watches him like he expects something.

"I didn't have you down as a tea-drinker, particularly," Arthur replies. "Your scene is up next regardless."

A light goes on behind Antonio's eyes, because he lets out a little gasp as if undergoing some grand revelation. "Aha, yes! I'm next. I don't even need a script."

"Well… done…?" Ludwig offers.

"How _proud_ I am of you," Arthur drawls.

"Just a second," Gilbert grumbles, leading Ludwig to question just how private their conversation's been.

Gilbert drops the mass of useless items Francis brought out, littering the stage with them, grinning up at the non-existent audience in anticipation of what he'll see tomorrow night. He holds only the retractable knife, slowly lifting it Macbeth-style to stare at it out in front of him, before launching into some clearly fabricated breathing exercises.

"Ooh, such presence. This should be good!"

"If this is your notion of skilled, Antonio, you're more up in the clouds than I thought you were."

Antonio pouts. "Many people have already bought their tickets! I even managed to make Tae-se buy one and it didn't result in hearing him use big words to be mean about capitalism."

"Ha! Should you believe most of those money-wasters are going to actually _attend, _there's a suspended island in those clouds with your name on it." Arthur decides he hasn't exhausted the point enough, adding swiftly, "A Republic. The Floaty Rock Republic. The Floaty Rock Republic of Airheads and Tomato Plantations, in a permanent state of war against Stratford-upon-Avon."

_Fascinating _as it is, it's a developing argument Ludwig decides to ignore, because what he may lack in appreciation for the arts he makes up for in journalistic ability. Perhaps _witnessing _the source material would give him better grounds for writing about it. Slotting his pen into his breast pocket, he folds his arms as Arthur's were, turning his attention to whatever it is Gilbert intends to act out.

It's clear Lovino isn't happy with the cast list. His glaring expression during Gilbert's speech, fanciful and hammy about the prevalence of terrifying evil, could just contain in-character abhorrence of the character Gilbert plays… But Ludwig would be willing to bet one million Euros it actually just contains abhorrence of Gilbert.

If Ludwig _had _one million Euros, anyway.

A constant, rhythmic tap from Arthur's foot keeps track of the passing seconds as Gilbert drones on and on, Lovino surprisingly doing very little to stop his nemesis from spouting such rubbish. Ludwig scribbles down a few quotes here and there that seem apparently intended to be inspirational.

To his right, Arthur shifts, as if about to say something to Antonio, but he quickly turns back again when it becomes apparent the Spaniard is more interested in murmuring things with the prop-master. They glance briefly up at the stage every now and then, but mostly seem uninterested in favour of whatever they're discussing.

"...and love, I decree un-awesome!" Gilbert cries, though Ludwig has a sneaking suspicion he's ad-libbing. "To be or not to be, that is the horse I'd give my Kingdom for, and wherefore art thou, Duncan, to this dagger I see before me?"

Arthur winces – perhaps too early.

He doesn't witness it, not really, despite the fact he'll play witness later. Ludwig hears more than he observes, slowly turning back to the stage with the usual blank expression borne from extended boredom, tensing somewhat when Gilbert whirls around to point that 'magical' knife towards Lovino. The Italian jolts upright, like he'd zoned out and hadn't realised it was his line until faced with a fake weapon in such a way – for whatever reason, there comes the sound of Arthur snickering beneath his breath.

Ludwig sees Gilbert wave the knife around _menacingly_, and he sees Gilbert thrust it forward in one fell swoop, and he doesn't see it make impact with Lovino's stomach but he hears the Italians incredibly masculine shriek.

Arthur stops laughing. Francis and Antonio stop talking. For a moment, nothing happens on-stage and Ludwig contemplates clapping, because that seems to be good manners when witnessing a play – but nobody else is so he doesn't, watching and waiting and struggling to think of anything else he needs to note down.

It's Mei that breaks the moment of silence, from wherever she's drifting around through the empty audience seating. Her scream says it all; there's Gilbert pulling away, slow and shocked while Lovino burbles something that doesn't sound like his native tongue nor English in the least.

Blood trickles from a carved indent in Lovino's shirt, streamlets that cascade as waterfall-red into the floorboards – Ludwig thinks it's just special effects. That is, of course, until _Arthur _starts screaming, too.

Lovino gives a violent twitch. He manages a cry of "_Fuck_," crashing from where he stands to hit the deck; Francis pushes past Arthur and Ludwig entirely to rush to him, with Antonio's footsteps a steady thud in retreat while he cries _HelpHelpHelp _towards anything, a source of assistance that mightn't even be there,fond as he's always been of the younger Italian.

He may profess otherwise at times, but Ludwig _does _love his brother. They've spent far too much time around each other, the products of booming times in kempt Köln, though Gilbert may be a very different sort of person (that criminal record for underage drinking, coupled with public indecent exposure and rampant watermelon theft, is appropriately questionable). Ludwig still cares.

In that moment, however, he struggles to do so, because he's detached from the two figures paraded out in front of him. One being, the convulsing caricature of a schoolboy with shirt pointillist-red, hands slippery and grasping as they slide through his own _gore,_ seeping unceremoniously out of him. The other, the cause of such a gruesome scene, far more violent than the script's original vision – Gilbert backs away, though Francis bids him to stay in flurried speech with one arm thrown out in desperate reach, until Gilbert's gone, _GoneGoneGone._

Arthur is frozen to the spot. Ludwig is much the same.

(And later, when he's confined to his dormitory with his eyes set to the ceiling, he'll regret the fact that his first thought was as to who would clean up all that _blood_.)

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**to be continued! for those following my other WIPs, i needed a break and this is the sort of thing i **_**really **_**like writing, so hopefully i'll be quicker with those, too.**


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